Title: Good Night, Mrs. Solverson (And All the Ships at Sea
Characters: [Lou Solverson, Betsy Solverson]
Warnings: Swearing, dealings with cancer (If this is a trigger for anyone, please do not read), character death, spoilers for season 2.
GOOD NIGHT, MRS. SOLVERSON
(And All the Ships at Sea)
Lou is tired.
He's tired of death.
He's tired of death following him around, not giving him a chance to take a goddam breath. Ever since Vietnam, death's been there, stalking him, tracking him, like that damn Hanzee Dent...
Vietnam, then the ordeal with the Gerhardts and the fellas outta Kansas City. And now Betsy.
He always knew the day would come, when the cancer would win, but that didn't make it any easier.
Quietly, he sits by the hospital bed and watches Betsy sleep. Her face is pale, dark rings standing out prominently under her eyes. With a gentle hand, he brushes her chocolate brown bangs aside and strokes her face. For the millionth time since he arrived two hours ago at nine thirty at night, Lou's eyes fill with tears as the realization sinks in: he's going to lose her, he's going to lose Betsy. He's going to lose her and what is he supposed to do when she's gone? What about Molly? How's he going to raise Molly without a mom?
Lou begins to tremble and he withdraws his hand from his wife's face, clenching his fists in his lap. He sits staring teary-eyed at Betsy's white face, shaking minutely, as the same questions races through his mind over and over: What will I do?
It's cold enough in Luverne with Betsy here. Lou can't even imagine the freezing loneliness when he loses his wife.
"Good morning, Mr. Solverson," he hears a voice, and he blinks, causing a tear to roll down his cheek. The image of his wife, calm and smiling, is blurry, so Lou firmly rubs his eyes.
Betsy's awake.
Deathly pale, almost gray, and far too thin, but she's awake.
Lou half stands up, clutching his wife's hands in his. "Good morning, Mrs. Solverson," he replies, and chokes up. His eyes fill up again. Goddam water works.
Betsy looks at him, all practical and matter-of-fact, ever the optimist and Lou wonders how he'll survive without her abilities to make the best out of a situation. "Don't get yourself into such a state," she says, and Lou smiles a little. "Too late, hon," he replies.
She squeezes his hand and sighs. "Where's Molly?"
"With your dad," answers Lou. "Betsy...I don't know how to raise her without you."
"If you need to get married again, to give Molly a mom again, that's okay," says Betsy with all truthfulness. "Just not Rhonda Knutson...she has those eyes, ya know? Too close together, or somethin'..."
"I'm not gettin' married again!" exclaims Lou fiercely. "No, there's only one Mrs. Solverson, and that's you."
Betsy smiles, and Lou sees the relief on her face, the contentment. Lou feels like he's drowning, but takes a deep breath and steadies himself, because Betsy is dying and Betsy needs him to be strong right now. As much as he tries, though, he knows Betsy sees through the act. However, she has a look that is thankful, and Lou just stares at her and wishes that everything would be okay.
Betsy sighs and then inhales sharply, stiffening with a sudden onset of pain. Panicked, Lou leans over his wife and stops. Frozen. His hands hover over her, unsure of what to do. But as unexpectedly the anguish comes, it passes, and Betsy relaxes. Lou takes in her peaceful demeanor and blinks. How is she so damn calm?
"-okay, Lou," he realizes she's talking. "You're okay." Lou feels guilty and wrong that Betsy, on her deathbed, is comforting his sorry ass, when he really should be the one comforting her. She sees that, and huffs out a laugh that seems to chide, 'Silly Lou.' "This is the last time I get to comfort you, Mr. Solverson," she says matter-of-factly. "Let me be your rock one last time. Ya hear me, hon?"
Now Lou's gone, he's done holding back the tears and the fears and the desperation, the questions and the feelings of dread and hopelessness and helplessness. He crumples, knees giving out as Betsy holds his hand and then says gently, "C'mon, the floor is no place for my husband. Get on up here, then," and, with difficulty, scoots over so there's enough room for one strapping Minnesota state trooper. Nearly blinded by tears, Lou manages to raise himself to his feet and fall into the bed beside his wife, curling up against her thin body. She feels cold, her icy fingers holding his head to her chest, but it's still Betsy, and Lou clutches her tight to him and soaks her in.
Betsy doesn't worry.
She's dying, and Lou's falling apart, and Hank will be sure to follow her to the grave in his old age, but Betsy doesn't worry.
Of course she wishes she could live to see the things in her dream come true. Of course she wants to see Molly grow into womanhood, to meet her daughter's future husband, to cherish her grandchildren. But there's no changing the fact that Betsy's dying, and there's no use feeling depressed about it. "Make the best of the time left," she thinks, and so she does.
She's written letters for Molly, so many letters, each in a different envelope with their own title: When You Start Junior High, When Your Dad Feels Sad, When You Miss Your Mom, When Boys Are Being Boys...the list went on and on, each letter containing advice and how-to's. Even after death, Betsy would be with her daughter.
And Betsy doesn't worry.
Lou will have trouble, for awhile. He'll cry, and he'll be temporarily lost, but he's a father. He won't let Molly down. That much, Betsy knows for a fact.
And she's written him letters as well, to help him overall. She'll never leave him, she'll never leave her daughter. She'll never be truly gone.
Of this, Betsy is confident.
She doesn't worry.
With Lou trembling and sobbing beside her in the hospital bed, Betsy rubs his arms comfortingly. This is the worst she's ever seen him, but she knows this is the worst he'll ever get. It's important, proper, that she's here for him now.
It's very quiet. Betsy shushes him gently, whispering over and over that she loves him. Her hands run through his hair and hug him close, muffling his broken sobs. She rubs his back soothingly and smiles at how his arm drapes over her, clutching her hospital gown in a fist. No longer crying, Lou sniffs, and Betsy looks down, seeing tears still shining in Lou's bloodshot eyes. He looks tired, and Betsy's tired too, but she won't sleep until Lou does and tells him so. He stares at her, looking ridiculous, cuddled up next to her and drowning in his puffy state trooper winter jacket, taking up twice the amount of bed she is. He reaches up and touches her face, and it's so tender and compassionate that she is suddenly loathe to go. However, it's still her last night on earth. To her, it should be the same as any other. There's nothing she regrets, and she believes she lived her life to the full.
She knows Lou can read her mind.
And so she smiles and kisses her husband full on the lips, grinning when he responds with loyal passion. It's long and lingering, and when they break apart, she says, following the nightly procedure since the night of their wedding, "Good night, Mr. Solverson."
Lou turns to lay on his back, his head still turned towards her. "Good night, Mrs. Solverson," he replies softly, "and all the ships at sea."
Together, they stare out the window, at the night draped over the city. Stars gleam in the sky, cold and bright.
Finally, Lou closes his eyes, drifting into slumber. He sighs, and Betsy lets her eyelids droop, until the world is dark and black.
She's happy with the life she has lived.
Betsy doesn't worry.
The End.